Open and Shut
by Vizardry
Summary: John and Mary decide to have an open marriage and it works surprisingly well for them. The person who can't seem to handle it is Sherlock.


John bounces on the balls of his feet, grinning up at Sherlock. The post-case flush is still on his cheeks, eyes sparkling.

"Lestrade wants to go in and give a statement."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose and gives the response he knows John is expecting.

"Lestrade can wait. We just caught him a jewel thief."

John frowns, but the creases around his eyes don't disappear which is how he knows John's disapproval is feigned.

"Well, we really should. But. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter if we do it tomorrow. Scotland Yard have probably got plenty of other things to be getting on with."

"Yes, wouldn't want them to strain themselves."

John grins. "Dinner?"

"There's a Chinese around the corner. I haven't tried it but the door handle looks promising."

"Right - erm. Actually, I was going to suggest we go to mine. I've got some of that thing you like - you know, with the peas - in the fridge. And Mary's on her own tonight... you know."

"Of course," Sherlock says. He'd been hoping for a little longer with John to himself, hoping to prolong the fantasy that it was just the two of them again, eating dinner before sharing a cab back to Baker Street. Tea in the kitchen, squabbles about the bathroom, the sound of John's feet padding around on the floor upstairs. The small details that Sherlock still inexplicably missed, despite the years that have passed.

He knows better than to say any of this however.

It's a short tube ride to John's house. Sherlock wanted to take a cab but John had gone on one of his little rants about sensible spending and how some of them had a mortgage to pay off. Sherlock has never been sure what John's mortgage has to do with his travel habits but John takes every opportunity to lecture him about it anyway. Sherlock doesn't really mind.

As they approach the house, Sherlock hears the sound of Mary's laughter, low and soft, and then the soft snick of a closing door. A man, smiling to himself, appears at the Watson front gate, letting himself out. Sherlock pauses in his tracks. The man is flushed, clothes creased and covered in fibres that Sherlock recognises from John's bedroom carpet. His hair is damp - he's recently showered. His belt fits awkwardly, he's done it up on a hurry and not pulled it as tight as is his custom.

Signs of recent coitus: unmistakeable.

"Mark," says John. "I didn't know you'd be coming round tonight."

The man starts, and looking at John, flushes a little (as well he might).

"Oh - hi, John. Yeah, I thought I'd - drop by."

"Sure," says John. "Great. Well. Good to see you."

"You too - er - must dash."

The man practically stumbles over his own feet in his rush to get away from the scene. John looks rather like he wants to laugh.

"John," says Sherlock. "John, that man..."

Sherlock pauses unsure how to finish that sentence. How does one phrase the revelation _John, that man shows unmistakeable signs of having just had sex with your wife?_

"Ah," John's smile fades a little. His face crumples into rueful lines, and he reaches a hand to brush through his hair. "Yeah, I might have known you'd... I should probably explain."

Sherlock fixes his attention firmly on John. "Explain what?"

"Mary and I - we've decided to have an open relationship."

"Open," Sherlock repeats.

"It means that-"

"I know what it means," Sherlock snaps. "It doesn't seem like something you'd want."

"Yeah, well," John breathes out a sigh, leaning back on the gate. "I didn't think it would be my cup of tea either but it seems to work for us. We'd been having a lot of problems, you know since - since Elizabeth."

John turns his head away slightly, blinking several times in quick succession. Sherlock clenches his fists, hard. He knows that the stillbirth of John and Mary's daughter cuts at his friend in ways that Sherlock can't even begin to understand, let alone offer any assistance in.

"Both of us needed... I don't know - a distraction. We'd built ourselves up for this big change, for being parents and then, well. That wasn't happening anymore. Neither of us are very good with having nothing to do and we both had exciting lives once. It was all right for me, I had cases and, well, you. But Mary..."

John bit at his lip for a moment. "She can't go back to her old life, of course. Doesn't want to. This seems to give her something."

"And you don't mind?"

"I'd have thought I would," says John. "I've always been the jealous type. But not this time. It's just sex, you know. Just fun. I know we love each other and that's what matters."

"So it's only Mary who-"

"Er," John says, a blush creeping across his neck. "No. I mean, yes. I haven't - yet."

Sherlock watches him closely and tries to ignore the peculiar sinking sensation in his chest.

"But you have someone in mind."

John's mouth quirks in a way Sherlock doesn't entirely understand, but then he raises his eyes to Sherlock's.

"There's a nurse at Barts."

"Close to home."

"Yeah, well," John says. "Mary gave it the green light."

"I see," says Sherlock, although he doesn't. He feels as though the world around him is suddenly unstable, the structure of the ground beneath him likely to suddenly give way. He wants to reach out and touch John for reassurance, but that in itself is a dangerous idea.

"So you're - happy then," he says, at last.

John, who had been looking at him with some concern, softens.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I am." He touches Sherlock lightly on the arm. "Shall we go in and get some dinner?"

* * *

Mary greets them at the door with a peck on the cheek for Sherlock and a longer embrace for John. She's fully dressed, clothes without any telling stain or crease, although her hair is slightly damp. Clearly she's better at hiding her tells than her lover - but that's no surprise, is it?

_There's nothing to hide_, Sherlock reminds himself. John approves of this. John intends to engage in some extra marital activity himself.

"I thought you'd be out all night," Mary says, following them in the kitchen. "I'm afraid Mark and I polished off all the wine."

"Not to worry," John says. "There still some of that risotto in the fridge? I promised some to Sherlock."

Mary's nose wrinkles. "John, it was sprouting mould."

"Ah," John says sheepishly. "I guess I might have left it a bit too long."

Mary raises her eyebrows. "I don't know how the two of you ever survived living together."

"Healthy immune systems," Sherlock says at the same time as John begins. "Mrs Hudson-"

Mary laughs. "There some chicken left, why don't we make a stir fry?"

Sherlock finds himself positioned by Mary at a chopping board and handed a knife and a stack of carrots. It strikes him that the Mary Watson is an intensely optimistic person if she expects Sherlock Holmes to participate in drudge work. But then John looks at him and the knife in his hand with such a pleased expression that Sherlock can't bear to put it down again.

It sets a dangerous precedent - John might start to expect his aid with housework all the time if he shows weakness once. Then again, he barely sees John more than twice a fortnight now. Perhaps he can afford the effort.

Mary is digging around in the fridge as John puts on the rice.

"You bought fresh lemongrass, did you?"

"Bottom left."

"You star."

Sherlock watches them both, as they move around one another in the kitchen, the quiet comfortable orbit around one another. Mary places a hand lightly on John's shoulder as she passes, and John smiles. _We've been having a lot of problems_ John had said, and Sherlock thinks - have they?

Marriage is not Sherlock's area. Relationships, in fact, not his purview in the slightest. His most long-lasting and affectionate bond (if one discounts family) has been with John. And even Sherlock can read the difference between his own relationship with John and John's with Mary. John and Mary smile and touch and lean into one another, and the tension in John's shoulders relaxes at least 15 per cent as a result. When Sherlock touched John in the past, John would stiffen, grit his teeth, lean away from him. When Sherlock required something pulled out of his pocket John avoid eye contact as they touched, looking past Sherlock, over his shoulder, avoiding any unnecessary contact. When the clasp of Mary's necklace catches in her hair John jumps forward to untangle it, with tender care, kissing her cheek as he passes. John and Mary banter gently over mouldy risotto, while John and Sherlock had had pitched battles over fingers in the freezer - arguments that usually led to John, grimfaced, storming away. Sherlock had broken John's heart, carelessly, ignorantly and Mary had mended it. Surely, Sherlock thinks, this is what a relationship ought to be? Surely this is happiness?

He misses John, with a constant gnawing ache that follows him everywhere. But there is a peculiar sweetness in the notion that John is the happier for Sherlock's absence in his life. That, unable to give John contentment, Sherlock has made the supreme sacrifice of gifting him happiness with someone else. He's lying to himself, Sherlock is aware - John would be with Mary regardless of Sherlock's interventions to aid their marriage - but Sherlock needs the fiction, needs to feel that his loneliness is a contribution of John's happiness, rather than the purely pointless pain he knows it is. A little white lie hurts no one.

The thought that John and Mary have been having _problems_, problems severe enough to overwhelm John's ridiculously conventional notions of the marital bond turns this picture on its head. Because he hadn't seen it. He'd known they were grieving, but they'd seemed united in their sorrow, sufficient in one another. After the events of Sherlock's shooting Sherlock had believed it had been established that Mary was the perfect woman for John as John was the perfect man for Mary. How could they need more? And how could Sherlock not have known?

There's a sharp crack and Sherlock realises he's pushed down on his carrot rather too heavily - a piece flies away from his knife and is caught by John who grins at him and pops it in his mouth.

"Careful," Mary says. "We're chopping them, not torturing them for information."

"Well, you'd know." Sherlock says waspishly.

He watches at John turns away to poke at the frying pan. The whirling mass of confusion that has filled his mind since he found out the truth solidifies to one thought. _You didn't know he was unhappy. You let him down again._

Sherlock doesn't hear from John and Mary again for several days after their dinner. This is not unusual, of course. It is only Sherlock's particular private turmoil that makes the time hang heavier than usual, that and the lack of a decent case.

* * *

Sherlock retreats to the sofa with his laptop and tries not to think about John. He solves several minor cases via internet and runs an experiment on the dissolution of flesh in acid.

On the third day he cracks and looks up the employment records of Bart's hospital, scouring the nurse's section. Statistically, men who have extra marital relations tend to choose a partner as physically different from their spouse as possible. Mary is small and blonde so most likely the woman John is intending to bed will be tall and brunette. Sherlock narrows the choice down to three nurses: examining their photographs Sherlock deduces that one of them recently escaped from an abusive relationship, the second is addicted to scratch cards and the third has an unnecessarily large shoe collection. All things considered the gambler is probably most compatible with John's needs, as Sherlock understands them. (Does Sherlock understand them?)

Sherlock feels frustration overtake him and is just contemplating planting a virus in St Bart's HR system out of pure pique when his phone beeps with an incoming text message. He picks up his phone.

John: _Third STI test today. Joy of joys._

It's become a habit of John's in recent months to text Sherlock out of the blue, usually with banalities or complaints - he saw a dog out walking and it reminded him of Henry Knight, his clinic hours are dragging, he bought a sandwich only to realise it contained mayonnaise. Sherlock has yet to determine what prompts the texts - there seems to be no particular pattern to when John sends them, nor is the content ever particularly informative. If it was anyone else in the world, Sherlock would probably deliver an acerbic reply and block the number. But from John...

Sherlock brings the phone up to his chest and closes his eyes, picturing John in the clinic, looking tired and a little resigned after performing the test. Picking up his phone to tell Sherlock about it. (Why?)

He imagines himself in the clinic beside John - he'd say something rude about the previous patient and John would scold him and then laugh and the tired look would fade from John's eyes and be replaced by something else. Sherlock breathes out slowly, fixing the fantasy image in his mind - John in his lab coat, looking at him with warm eyes. Sherlock would be sitting close to him at the desk, close enough for Sherlock to reach out a hand and touch the smooth skin at the base of his jaw, to find the place where his pulse jumps. Close enough that if he leans forward he will feel John's breath brushing his face, and if he moved a little closer still he could...

The phone buzzes on his chest again, starting Sherlock out of his thoughts. John again.

_Got my first date tonight. I'd forgotten how nerve wracking this could be._

Sherlock sits up sharply, the warmth from his fantasy utterly dissipated. He glares at the phone, and then begins typing back.

_You could always cancel._

There's a short silence then Sherlock's phone beeps again.

_At the moment it's tempting._

There's an interval of a few seconds and then Sherlock's phone beeps again.

_God, this feels like being a teenager again_

Sherlock tries to remember being a teenager. _Bored and irritated with humanity?_

_I meant like me as a teenager, genius, not like you._

This clarifies nothing. Sherlock tries to imagine John as a teenager and fails. Instead he conjures up the mental image of John preparing for dates, in the bathroom combing his hair with extra care, swilling mouthwash.

_You'll be tempted to reapply your cologne when leaving the clinic. I advise against it. If you've followed your usual habits then you've already refreshed it once and doubtless smell more than pungent enough already._

_Pungent, right. That's just the vote of confidence I was looking for, thank you._

Sherlock hesitates. _I've no doubt your date will enjoy your company_he types out, then deletes._They ought to consider themselves immensely lucky to have gained your interest_he types out and deletes. _I need your assistance on a case. Urgent. Cancel your plans._ he types out. And deletes.

_Glad to be of service_ he types out and sends.

* * *

There are three pubs close to John's place of work which he frequents on a fairly regular basis. Sherlock rules out the first since it's the place John's colleagues usually go for drinks - however amicable his deal with Mary, he doubts John wants his date to be the subject of clinic gossip. The second is a place John is fond of taking Stamford or whichever of his 'rugby mates' he is still in touch with for a drink, a low key sort of place, darts and beer and relative quiet. The third pub is a bit trendy, frequented by a younger crowd, the sort of place which has jazz music tinkling in the background and where all the beers are organic, exotically sourced and have pictures of woodland fruits on the label. Not John's scene, obviously, but John will choose it because want to impress. He won't want to seem dull and middle-aged in front of his new mistress.

Sherlock takes a seat at the back of the pub having ordered a pint glass of something dark and bitter tasting. The pub is a quiet hum of activity - not so full that one can't find a seat but loud and busy enough that one has to pull close to the person one is with, lean in to hear them speak. Organic intimacy. It seems like the sort of factor John would have taken into account. Sherlock watches the door and waits.

John arrives a full twenty minutes after his shift has ended - he's changed his shirt, clearly spent some time in front of a mirror. He stands, a little awkwardly, in the entrance to the pub for a moment, scanning the crowd. Then his shoulders snap back and he smiles, moving forward as confidently as Sherlock ever remembers him doing when on the pull in the past.

Sherlock looks to the bar to try and locate the object of John's attention. There are only two women unaccompanied - a red head currently scrolling through facebook on her phone and looking bored, and a younger girl with very dark gothic make up. Neither looks familiar from Sherlock's scouring of Bart's HR records but Sherlock supposes, if the gothic girl were made up a little differently...

John strides past both women without a glance and lays his hand on the leather jacketed shoulder of the man leaning on the corner of the bar. The man turns, and gives him a broad smile, standing up to embrace him.

Sherlock is confused. John is supposed to be on a date. He'd told Sherlock he was on a date. Was that a lie? Did he back out and decide to opt for a night out with the lads instead?

John says something to Leather Jacket and the man moves closer, angling his body towards John in a way that suggests intimacy, muttering in his ear. It's noisy in here, but not _that _noisy, Sherlock thinks. The man does not need to be so close. And John does not step away. Instead he's smiling up at the man with a glint in his eyes Sherlock remembers, a look he'd thought was reserved for cases and deductions and gun fights. A look that says _I feel alive, don't you?_

_There's always something,_ Sherlock thinks. John had told him he was dating a nurse. He'd never said that the nurse was female.

Sherlock watches with a leaden sensation spreading through him as John and the man take seats in a far corner, heads bent close, clearly already thick as thieves. The man has arranged himself so that his arm drapes over the back of John's chair, the distance between their two profiles mere inches. As they talk, the man's arm shifts, so that his fingers casually brush John's shoulder, rubbing circles in the fabric.

Sherlock finds that suddenly the pub is far too crowded. He gets to his feet and stumbles through the milling, alcohol sodden crowd and out into the chill evening air. Sherlock takes deep breaths, and screws his eyes shut trying to blot out the eager look he'd seen on John's face.

_I'm not gay_. Always John's line of defense when people accused them of being a couple and Sherlock had believed him. Admittedly, he'd never said he wasn't bisexual but that seemed to Sherlock to have been rather implied. Was John lying? Was 'I'm not gay' simply a kinder term in John's world for 'of course I'm not with _him_.'

Sherlock shakes his head. _Stupid_, he berates himself. He glances back at the pub and briefly considers going back inside, but it's fruitless. Even he is not that much of a masochist. Trying very hard not to imagine what intimacies John and Leather Jacket might be progressing to in Sherlock's absence, Sherlock heads off down the road to hail a cab.

* * *

It takes Sherlock an hour in London traffic to get home, during which time he takes out his phone and scrolls sightlessly through news websites, trying to find a distraction. Nothing suffices.

He's barely got in the door at Baker Street when his phone beeps. Sherlock picks it up and takes a look, his heart jumping slightly in his chest as he sees who the message is from.

_Hey u at Baker St?_

_Where else?_

_Might drop round in a bit - Mary won't be expecting me home yet._

Sherlock glances at the clock. John is walking away from his date, apparently, at only half past ten. Walking away and coming to see Sherlock. Sherlock lets out a breath.

_Fine._

John arrives half an hour later, looking flushed and happy and bearing cartons of Chinese food.

"Thought you probably wouldn't have eaten," he says, and heads straight to the kitchen, doling out the takeaway onto plates. Sherlock watches him, eyes narrowed.

"I'd have thought you'd still be with your date," Sherlock says.

"We just had a drink," John says.

"And no sex? I thought that was the purpose of the endeavour."

"I didn't want to rush things. I'm not that sort of bloke, you know."

"Aren't you?" says Sherlock. "I rather think Amy begs to differ. And Gloria. And that one with the nose, what was her name?"

"Veronica," John says, and comes out of the kitchen with food on plates. He shoves one onto Sherlock's knees, and Sherlock inhales savoury fumes that kick his stomach into wanting despite himself.

"That was different," John says, settling into his chair. "I mean now I – well. This is new to me, you know."

"Which is new?" Sherlock drawls. "The adultery or the having the sex with men?"

John glances up at him, eyes suddenly darker and expression stilling. "Both," he says.

Sherlock finds himself unable to hold John's gaze. He picks up his fork and stabs at his food.

"Oh."

"How did you know it was a bloke I met?" John asks.

Ah, Sherlock thinks, so the omission of the nurse's gender _had_ been deliberate.

"Aftershave," Sherlock says. "Two distinct scents on your clothes – one of them not your own."

It's a lie but John seems to buy it - from which Sherlock can only assume that Leather Jacket did actually get close enough to smear his scent on John but that is a thought to put away for a later moment.

John doesn't say anything for a while, but shovels up his takeaway with the efficient speed of a soldier never sure when his meal might be interrupted. Sherlock picks at his food, and glares at John. It isn't until John has finished, gone to put his plate away and come back with a glass of water that Sherlock speaks.

"You aren't gay."

John takes a swallow of water, and wipes his mouth. "No."

"You're bisexual then."

"I'm – " John says. "Experimenting."

Sherlock turns to stare at him.

"Mary thinks…" John says, and then looks away at his shoes. "_I _think that maybe – there are parts of my sexuality I've avoided, in the past. I guess I didn't want to be different. Didn't want to examine too closely why I…. I mean, I like women mainly and it was always easier, it always fit with who I wanted to be. Now it seems like – well, why not give it a shot? Seems like a small thing to be afraid of now after… after everything."

John's gaze drifts just slightly and Sherlock knows he's thinking of Elizabeth. Suddenly Sherlock finds he wants the John of earlier evening back, the one who was smiling and pleased, even if he had just been pawed at by a leather wearing nurse.  
"You had a good time then?" he asks, more gently.

John's eyes fix on him. "I did, yeah. He's a good bloke, we had a nice chat."

"I'm glad," Sherlock says.

"Good kisser too," John adds, eyes gleaming laughingly.

Sherlock wrinkles up his nose in disgust. "I did not need to know that."

John laughs, and then subsides a little. "It's all right, isn't it?" he asks after a while. "I mean, you're all right with all this, aren't you?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Are you asking for my permission?"

"No – its – no. Of course not. It's just I know you were worried, about me and Mary and - this. Just – you know I'd never hurt her, right? This is all fine. It's going to be fine."

"I know. You love her." Sherlock states.

"Yeah," John says. "Speaking of which… shit, I think I've missed the last tube. Call me a taxi?"

Sherlock gives him a short nod, and picks up his phone. John fumbles with his own.

"Mary?" he says into it as he stumbles to his feet. "Yeah, fine. Just on my way home."

John pauses for a moment in the doorway, looking back at Sherlock. A car door slams on the street below.

"That'll be your taxi."

"Yeah," John says but he doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock. "This was nice."

"This?"

"The takeaway, you know, chatting. Not being on a case just - talking. We don't do this often enough, do we?"

Sherlock swallows, and makes himself smile. "Well," he forces his voice to be casual. "You know Baker Street is always open to you."

"Yeah," John says. "Yeah, I know."

And to Sherlock's surprise John steps forward, giving him a warm clap on the shoulder and a smile, before turning and running off down the stairs. Sherlock stands still in the living room, feeling the warm impression of John's hand on his arm fading slowly into the dark.


End file.
